Azriel: Obey Thy Mother
Iosef was completely unimportant. Azriel thought that perhaps that was what was so interesting about him. He was from a family of wood elves, and wood elves were rarely of interest to the Melaines, but his human mother was the matriarch of a small time crime family from one of the towns outside Moorland, out in the swamps. The Melaines were already allies with them, however -- Azriel was under no obligation to woo Iosef. He was the matriarch's bastard lovechild, and he wasn't anyone's first- or even second-born, and his half-blooded status made him something of a pariah, besides; something quite calamitous would have to occur in order for him to come anywhere near the line of succession. Iosef was no one, and Azriel found him fucking fascinating. What his life must be like, Azriel thought -- looking at him across the Floating Market. He was well-dressed and well-mannered, smiling charmingly to the fruit vendor as he haggled with her. He’d been raised properly despite his low status in his family, kept comfortable in housing and clothing, never had to work, most likely. He didn’t wear any jewelry, however, and his clothing was relatively plain -- he was relatively plain, himself, nothing special to look at, really. Dusky skin and dark eyes, long black hair and long fingers. There was a sitar slung over his back, and Azriel eyed it, and wished he’d brought his viol. Instead, he’d brought his ten-year-old sister, who got bored of poking a stick into the swamp and dropped it to tug at his hand and pull him away, to find something else to poke at. Normally Azriel just sort of indulged Amethyst and trailed behind her, making sure she stayed out of trouble, because that was simpler, but he decided to help her along this time. "My darling," he wheedled, "how does a lovely ripe peach sound?" "Can I chuck it in the swamp?" Amy asked. She was a baffling child. "Goodness, well, I suppose if you want to." Amethyst cheered and dragged him towards the fruit vendor. She was small for her age, not unlike him -- quite the opposite of Jasper or Gabriel, but it didn't run in the tiefling blood, given Abel and for that matter their mother were of normal height. Thus, he scooped her up so that she could see the full array of the vendor's wares, holding her against his front by the waist, her sparkly, mud-encrusted boots dangling. She poked and prodded assorted fruits, paying no particular mind to the peaches -- anything that would entertain the little gremlin, frankly -- and he eavesdropped on Iosef haggling with the merchant. "Surely it's not five coppers for everyone," he was saying, in a tone of gentle jest. He did have quite the nice voice. "You're only overcharging to make me stand here longer and carry on a conversation." The vendor laughed. She was an old, gnarled thing, the type one just expects to be a druid, with a twinkle in her eye at the young man chatting her up. It was only five coppers, Azriel thought -- hardly worth bargaining over. Iosef could afford it, and judging by the well-made, well-kept clothing and appearance, the vendor had to know this, as well, and know that if he was trying to charm her, it was only for its own sake. She noticed the tieflings, then, and blanched and turned to them quickly. "Young Master and Lady Melaine," she said, in her creaky voice. "Can I help you both with something? Fine thornfruit from deep in the bog?" "We're all right, thank you," Azriel said politely. "We're still deciding." "I'm gonna throw something in the swamp!" Amethyst announced. "You certainly are," Azriel muttered, "whether I intend for you to or not." "If I chuck in a peach, or an apple," she asked, "is it gonna sprout and grow outta the water?" "Um," Azriel said, because he had no godly clue. Iosef stepped in, looking amused. "Oh, definitely, yes. I heard that at night, frogs swim through the swamp and gather up all of the seeds that people toss in, and they carry them off to a secret frog orchard." "What!" Amy yelled. Azriel winced at the volume. "You're lyin'." He held up his hands. "I can only pass on the knowledge that has been passed on to me." Then he nodded to Azriel. "Did I hear right? You're Melaines?" "Indeed." "Ah, which ones are you? I'm afraid I can't keep straight." He reached up to twine a bit of his long inky hair around a finger. "I barely keep track of my own family tree." "It's easy to remember. You see, we're the purple ones," Azriel told him solemnly. Iosef laughed. He had a wonderful laugh. He purchased his apple, and Azriel bought a bunch of grapes to entertain Amethyst, threatening to put her on a leash if she ran off. It was a pointless and empty threat -- she would do as she liked and he wouldn't do a damned thing about it. But she was suitability occupied by throwing grapes out into the swamp, watching fish gobble them straight from the surface and birds divebomb to catch them. Azriel, meanwhile, sat on a bench just nearby, next to Iosef. He confessed to knowing who Iosef was already, and introduced himself and his errant sister. Iosef's family was in town, in meetings with Jade Melaine, and he had come along because he'd never been before. "I've been to Gentleglen," he said. "And Skyport. It seemed odd that I've avoided Moorland somehow." Azriel made an agreeable sound, watching his lips as he spoke. "Are you a bard?" he asked abruptly -- quite rudely. "Or merely a musician?" Iosef was startled, but seemed delighted by the embarrassing and uncharacteristic bluntness, laughing again. "I -- I do apologize," Azriel started. "No, no, that's all right. I am a bard, yes. Why do you ask?" "Oh, well." It was difficult to put into words. "I thought that I could tell, and just wondered if I was right, I suppose." "Other bards usually can." He sounded sheepish. "Are you as well?" Azriel nodded, intrigued. "It's my voice," Iosef explained. "My voice is my instrument. I have some trouble, keeping the magic … in, so to speak." "You have trouble not singing?" Azriel asked, starting to smile. How quaint. How charming. "It's a curse, truly." Azriel was properly smiling, now -- not the fake smile he put on to entertain and woo, but a quite real one. He could feel the corners of his eyes crinkling. His mother warned him against such expressions, telling him that they would age his face prematurely -- he should be subtle, sedated, demure. It was happening, though, and like Amethyst’s childish impulsivity, there was little that he could do about it. “It’s a shame I don’t have my viol today,” he commented. “We could play together.” “Sounds wonderful. You know, I’ve never had the opportunity for a duet,” Iosef said, thoughtful, looking out over the marshland. “No one else in my family is musically inclined.” Azriel looked at him for a moment, thinking again that there was nothing particularly attractive about his face, yet it was an appealing face nonetheless; then he followed Iosef’s line of sight out towards the lowering sun through the trees. Then, down to the planks of the Floating Market, to Amethyst, who was nearly out of grapes. She was meant to be learning an instrument, and wizardry -- their mother insisted upon it for the horned among her children, disdainful of Gabriel and Jasper’s utter lack of magical talent -- but was so far not skilled enough to play alongside. Certainly no bardic talent had yet reared its head, which was probably lucky for them all, frankly. She'd be a terror once she had magic at her disposal. He should really get her home. He looked back to Iosef, and stood suddenly to sweep himself into a low bow, ankles crossed delicately as if in curtsy, offering one hand with the other tucked behind his back. “Well, then. Iosef Chernov, would you do me the kind favor of accompanying me to my home, where we might sit in the parlor and hold an impromptu concert?” Iosef laughed. Perhaps it was only the magic laced into it, but Mask, what a wonderful sound it was, truly. He took Azriel’s hand and stood. “Certainly, but only if you promise to just call me Sef. I mean, good lord. I’m barely a Chernov.” Yes, Azriel quite liked that about him, really. ### Amethyst scurried off to nip at Gabriel’s heels, or get into some sort of dangerous nonsense with Jasper, likely -- regardless, it was no longer Azriel’s concern. His sole concern was in entertaining Iosef Chernov. Sef. He liked that, too. Casual. Like when Jasper called him Az, or he called Amethyst Amy. Their mother despised it -- I gave you names, she would say, full of reproach, any time she heard them. Sef. They retired to the parlor, where Azriel procured tea and pastries on a silver serving dish and fine porcelain teacups with silver edging, and demurely poured Sef a sweet, fragrant blend. Sef mirrored his manners, but he did it with this spark in his eye, like they were putting on an amusing show, like they were both in on some joke. When Azriel fled the room to retrieve his viol case, he was faintly giggling. He felt giddy. He felt as if he were running across rooftops with the street children he’d been forbidden from playing with as he’d come of age. This, he thought, was fantastic. Sef was just important enough to not be a disgrace to be seen with, but not so important that Azriel had to … impress him. God, Azriel really wanted to impress him, though. He re-entered the room with a musical flourish, drawing his bow across the viol strings. Sef grinned -- he didn’t smile properly, he grinned, with a great many teeth, and his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Bravo, bravo.” He applauded as boisterously as one man could. Azriel felt himself turn a dark royal purple, and he quickly shushed Sef -- not because he was embarrassed and pleased. Not entirely, at any rate. “Sh, sh. My mother is still in meetings. She doesn’t appreciate noise.” “Does she not appreciate sweet music?” Sef kept grinned, but was quieter. “Music, yes.” Azriel took a seat across the low table from Sef. “Applause, less so.” He propped his viol up, and hesitated. “Ah. Shall we? I’m more than happy to simply play for you. You needn’t join in. You are the guest, after all.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Give me a note.” Azriel gave him a note -- a long, slow note, in a minor key. Something sweet and pretty, delicate and melancholy. Sef hummed quietly to himself, then joined, harmonizing in the major key -- a sunny and powerful sound, a wordless vocalization. It lit the room up, quite literally -- small dancing lights blinking into existence about him. Azriel’s eyes widened in delight, and he carried on. Sef followed effortlessly, his eyes closed, his lips quirked only slightly, but the smile still clear. Then he took the lead gently, and Azriel was more than happy to let him -- spinning their song into something brighter as the candles and lamps in the room dimmed, and only their own sparkling, brightly colored spheres illuminated them, swirling around the room. Sef’s were golden, courting Azriel’s purple, dipping and dancing, making them glow stronger. Will-o-wisps, they were. Fairy lights that flickered in the swamp. People always said not to follow them, that they were dangerous -- they would lead a lost traveler deeper in the muck until they sunk into it, entranced by the beauty. But they were so goddamn beautiful. Azriel wasn’t paying attention. He should have been, but he was entranced, as any foolish wayward soul. He was so … happy. Complete. His heart fluttered in his chest and it was a small wonder that his hands didn’t tremble so fiercely that he dropped his bow. In his head, he was already imagining what it would be like to have this -- to have Sef -- to have a companion who made him feel this way -- to have them all of the time. Or -- just more often. He oughtn’t be greedy. Perhaps monthly visits, or perhaps -- weekly. He was astray, until the lights flared back on, flames going black, and with a fingersnap his and Sef’s lights went dark. His bow screeched an unpleasant tone as he flinched, and Sef fell quiet, staring past him. Jade Melaine never said a word. She simply stood in the doorway and fixed her hard eyes on Azriel, then on the Chernov who was barely a Chernov, whom no one would truly miss. “Mother --,” Azriel started, but she turned and clicked away, hooves echoing on the marble. “I should go,” Sef said, hasty, standing. “Our parents’ meeting must be over. Perhaps I’ll see you later?” He smiled, so beautiful and plain, so hopeful and stupid. “No --,” Azriel tried, but Sef was subject to the whims of his family. And his family was subject to the whims of the Melaine matriarch, who never said that she had him disappeared, but disappear he did, without another splendid note of his voice ever reaching his ears. Likely his mouth had been bound. Likely the grime on Gabriel’s boots and cloak came from dumping some body in the swamp. Likely he had begged for his life, and invoked Azriel’s name, because Gabriel never questioned his orders, but he did drop a muddy glove onto Azriel’s shoulder briefly, that evening. Azriel never said a word. Category:Vignettes